


Ink

by Watermelon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Watermelon/pseuds/Watermelon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian gets a tattoo after Reichenbach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ink

He clutches a bottle of ice cool beer in his hand, closing his eyes to the steady buzzing of the tattoo gun. Amstel, the Dutch have excellent taste in beer. It’s humid, dimly-lit and sweaty in the tattoo parlour. He’d have gone somewhere classier, more upmarket, but he’s a bit broke and he knows the bloke who owns this place.

The sharp needle moves over his hip, creating a strange burning sensation in its wake. It stings a bit, but Sebastian isn’t a wuss. He’d had his chest clawed open by a man eating tiger back in India. By comparison, getting a tattoo’s just like having a soft little kitten paw at his belly.

“ _So…_ ” The tattoo artist begins, wiping an ink-covered cloth over his work-in-progress. Sebastian lifts his head and opens his eyes, having a quick peek. It’s coming along nicely. The bloke’s arms are covered in tattoos - _the shit kind._ Random pictures and scribbles and dates that mean nothing, right the way up both arms like a messy drawing book. “ _You still in the army, then?_ ”

“ _Nah. I’m done with that shit._ ” He grunts, taking a slow swig of his drink.

“ _I see. Who is he, then? The bloke in this tat? Fallen comrade_?” He asks, dipping the tattoo gun in a small bottle of black ink and filling in a little more of the tattoo, before swiping away the excess ink once more.

“ _Somethin’ like that._ ” Sebastian replies. He clears his throat and closes his eyes, resting his head back against the dentist-like chair. The bloke must sense that he doesn’t particularly want to discuss this, so he shuts up and focusses on his work, turning up the CD player a touch. Guns n Roses. Sebastian’s always had a thing for them.

Although, ‘ _knockin’ on heaven’s door_ ’ is quite the kick in the teeth, given his current predicament.

It doesn’t take much longer, no more than 10 or 20 minutes, before the tattoo bloke wipes the rag over his hip, and sets his equipment down, peeling off his latex gloves and smoothing his fingers over his work. “ _All done.. Have a look. Mirror’s over there_.”

Sebastian swings his legs over the edge of chair and stands up, making his way over to the large, full-length mirror.

He’s a bit of a mess. Franky, he’s in a state. He isn’t coping well. He drinks too much and doesn’t sleep enough. He spends half his time at the gym, pushing himself until his muscles burn with an intensity too acute to tolerate, at which point he takes an ice cold or scalding hot shower (depending on his mood). He then returns to his dingy flat (because he can’t face going back to _the_ flat), and drinks until he’s fucked enough to go to sleep.

Oh well, at least his hard work is paying off. Sebastian’s hencher than he’s ever been in his life.

He moves his focus to the new addition on his hip. It’s quite small, only a few inches in height. It is but a single word, just three letters long, tatooed in a cursive front, right before the outward curve of his hipbone.

_"Jim"._

Rest in peace, he thinks, _you little bastard_.


End file.
